


"I Am Who Am," and Other Lies to Tell Yourself

by elevenpacesleft



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: A mob wife, Cannibalism Puns, Character Study, Crack, Florence - Freeform, God Complex, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Hannibal is canonically half Italian lest we forget, Hannibal worked as a hitman for a period of time, Humor, I wanted to write about the funny cannibal man but now i'm just sad, Identity Issues, Italian Mafia, M/M, Missing Scenes, Not Beta Read, Palermo, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Season/Series 03, Stream of Consciousness, That devolved into something kinda serious i guess, That means he is genetically a drama queen, The Norman Chapel, consensual cannibalism, it's just as likely as you think it is, now THAT's amore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-25 21:33:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30095433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elevenpacesleft/pseuds/elevenpacesleft
Summary: "In the dim light of his office, Hannibal considered her parting advice, not for the first time. His games had gotten terribly...personal. After tonight, there would be no coming back to Florence. No going back to America, either. No Dona Giatta, whose jewelry had paid for the down payment on his house. No John Hopkins. No Baltimore psychiatric practice. A man with no country, no past. Had he done this on purpose?"Bereft of Will and unwilling to confront his emotions, Hannibal's mind wanders. Missing scenes from early season three, providing insight into Hannibal's thoughts and feelings on the people who have come in and out of his life.
Relationships: Anthony Dimmond/Hannibal Lecter, Bedelia Du Maurier & Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Kudos: 7





	"I Am Who Am," and Other Lies to Tell Yourself

Hannibal Lecter was often annoyed by the lack of regard toward his Italian heritage. His mother was a full-blooded Sforza, after all, and he had learned her language, along with Lithuanian, simultaneously. His Baltimore home was full of Florentine antiques, and his cooking style was highly informed by the Italian method. But no, Hannibal Lecter was continually type-cast as an “evil Eastern European type.” Well, sometimes he felt like an evil Southern European type, thank you very much. He missed his dark hair.

The 8-month jaunt to the continent had stirred up these old feelings. Particularly when Prof. Soglitato called him a strangero. The balls on that weasely little man, honestly. He had to purchase more concrete. 

Hannibal wasn’t born in Italy, he knew that. He didn’t have the accent or the typical features. He understood that. Could he read and write medieval Italian? Was he a self-taught expert on the art, literature, and culture? Absolutely, on both counts. How else would he have gotten hired at the damned studiolo. He hadn’t had to sleep with anyone for a job in decades and certainly didn’t care for the implication. People slept with him for jobs, not the other way around. He did his time. 

He found himself bothered by how much his thoughts circled back to identity, lately. It wasn’t that important, in the grand scheme of things. He was successful at every endeavor he had applied himself to (except one). An esteemable chef, musician, doctor, scholar, and artist. Those are what truly defined him, not his collection of nationalities. Bedelia would say these ties unconsciously informed him, his tastes, his politics, his attitudes, etc. He would agree, to an extent, but disliked the idea of intangible things impacting him in such visceral ways. He was a tactile person, despite the penchant for talking in metaphors. 

The “who am I and why,” questions came unbidden to his mind more and more often, though, and he could not quite force them out. It was distracting. 

Hannibal, ever rational, knew the answer already. I am who am. Obviously. He happened, nothing more. So why did he keep asking? There may be certain aspects of himself he wants to be understood or appreciated, but the how and why are irrelevant. According to a small voice that pricked the back of his skull, this was a little contradictory. He ignored it.

It was time to butcher Sogilato and make Bedilia watch. Delightful. 

***

Antony Dimmond was, unfortunately for him, possessed of wavy dark hair and attracted to danger. He reminded Hannibal of no one in particular. 

Antony Dimmond was ever so slightly taller than Will Graham and possessed of an infuriatingly posh English accent that grated Hannibal’s ears, for instance. Whereas Will spoke in general American, except for those select moments when he forgot himself and a delicate southern lilt shone through. Antony was very well dressed in expensive designer clothing that clung in all the right places. Will’s idea of dressing up was putting on a new salmon-colored shirt and combing his hair back. Maybe the effort had made his mouth water, a little. But for Antony, this was everyday attire, not meant for him specially. Antony was also attracted to him, giving Habbibal a clear come-on right in his office. Will was…

Hannibal did not finish that particular thought. He set down his apple and knife and looked at the man before him appraisingly. 

If Will was winter, cold and dark and mysterious, then Antony was summer, hot, bright, and open. No similarities, clearly. Nothing Bedelia could needle him about. 

From the music room of his mind palace (Detroit’s Orchestra Hall, one of the few acoustically perfect venues in the world) a string quartet began to play. Bittersweet notes on a violin struck Hannibal’s temple as he advanced toward the smiling, unctuous Antony Dimmond. Summer, by Vivaldi. A perfect soundtrack. He would top this idiot, bring him back for Bedelia if she was amenable, then snap his neck. 

“I have a few ideas about what position to twist you in, Mr. Dimmond. Any preferences?”

Antony’s back was against the wall now. He was breathing heavily. Good. “Only what pleases you, Dottore Fell.” 

Hannibal wrapped an appreciating hand around Antony’s flushed throat. “Turn around.”

***

Hannibal wondered, idly, what Will would be like in a sexual relationship. Would his upbringing prevent any thoughts of exploration with another man? Or was he more enlightened than that? Hannibal did not require a sexual component to his relationships, and would not be upset if Will had refused him. But he did want to be desired, coveted by Will. Sex would be a bonus. 

Antony moaned under him, taking a punishing pace with glee. The presto. 

When they finished, Hannibal felt a little better, lighter. The pep, as it were, was back in his step. Enough of these ridiculous, mercurial thoughts. He had a fake wife and a fake boyfriend (if he chose not to kill him). Who could find time for pointless rumination with such delectable diversions? 

“Accompany me to my home? I’d love to have you for dinner, and, perhaps Lydia will join you.”

Glassy-eyed, Antony followed him. 

***  
Turns out, Lydia would not be joining either of them. He rolled his eyes as she watched him divest Antony of his clothes, then skin, then certain internal organs, and his head. Bedelia was proving to be no substitute for Will. Hannibal remembered, fondly, how he and Will had taken apart the body of Randall Tier. Will’s design. It was carnal, yet elegant: an intensely dynamic piece. Hannibal appreciated how Will envisioned Randall in motion and was able to engineer both skeletons to achieve it. The memory only further cemented the fissure in his heart. They had their lives laid out in front of them, a future of glorious, bloody potential. Thrown away because Will refused to accept himself. Over an asinine redhead.

Hannibal had to remove a great deal of connective tissue to properly dislocated Antony’s joints, an arduous process, but it was worth it. He would display his impaled heart for all to see. For Will to see. In Palermo. 

The Mediterranean sun brought a smile to his face. He could smell fresh seafood and saltwater. His mother had visited often in her youth, her family having owned property nearby. He wondered which house it was. The records had been lost to time and fire. 

In the late afternoon, he entered the Norman Chapel with a briefcase. By closing time he had long been hiding in the catacombs, unseen by security guards during their cursory sweep. When he finally heard the locks click, Hannibal climbed the stairs.

There were three swords on display behind the altar. He plucked them from their resting place and got to work. It was going to take a deft hand to balance his design correctly, to create a tripod out of frictionless metal and a slick, days-old corpse.

The effect was striking, as he knew it would be. 

So striking, he could not bring himself to leave, no matter how prudent. 

Bedelia’s voice rang out at him. Guarding your vulnerable, broken heart? From who, Hannibal? Why can’t you leave your heart behind?

Hannibal slipped back into the shadows, to wait in silence. Until he could move on.

***

An unexpected development. The old bloodhound, Piazzi, was here. As well as a windswept Will Graham. They had both traveled a long way to see his work. He peered through one of the saint’s eyes in the upper frescos and did not know how to feel. The euphoria from presenting his tableau was fading fast, into a roiling, lurching emptiness. No smug grin made its way to his face. Hannibal watched in silence as the police slowly left the scene, leaving Will alone with his heart. He was stretched prone before it, hands behind his head in some strange facsimile of...relaxation? Maybe it was genuine. Maybe this was safe and familiar to him. Maybe. 

Hannibal recognized the twitches in his face as evidence of some internal conversation, and, not for the first time, ached for the ability to read his mind. To whom was he speaking? Hannibal? 

When Pazzi reappeared, spoiling the view entirely, Hannibal retreated into the catacombs to wait it out. 

The darkness soothed him. He wondered if there were any distant ancestors buried here. It was not a bad place to spend eternity, nor the tacet hours necessary to escape unnoticed. The candlelight and skulls reminded him of his lost sanctuary. Suddenly the smell of Will invaded his space, so close he could almost see the herb garden of his dining room, Will’s chestnut curls striking against the greenery. He felt transported. 

“Hannibal?”

He did not answer. Instead, he waltzed around Will’s steps, equidistant and unseen, always. Pazzi was here too, unbeknownst to Will. He could make no move, no matter his ambivalence. 

“Hannibal?” Will repeated.

He wondered if the heart above them twinged in unison with the one in his chest.

“I forgive you.”

***

If Antony was summer, and Will was winter, Bedelia was autumn. Refined. Measured. Cerebral. And fading, quickly. 

He hadn’t been thinking long-term when he brought her with him to Paris. She was a good companion, and she had, truly, helped him. If only it wasn’t between barbs and shooting up morphine. Hannibal knew he would eat her, eventually. It was only a matter of when. He would miss her intellect and cool beauty. 

But enough eulogizing. If Will and Pazzi were here, Jack Crawford was no doubt close behind. Bedelia could look after herself, and he was sure they would see each other again. 

Hannibal resolved to situate himself in his office at the studiolo, surrounded by devices of torture. It would set the correct tone for his impending meeting.

***

His thoughts drifted again, as he sketched the Florentine skyline. The first time he left this city, he had gone straight to America, but not immediately to medical school. While he and Lady Murasaki had money, not much of it was liquid—most of his inheritance being tied up in the Soviet and French bureaucracies. You can’t pay tuition with paintings and samurai armor, no matter how convenient. 

So, for a brief period, Hannibal killed for a fee. 

With a recommendation letter from one of Murasaki’s less-than-savory cousins, he entered into contract work with New York City’s yakuza. Either disappearing or displaying his victims, depending on the ask. It paid well, despite being somewhat contrary to his nature. 

But, as with everything he did, he strove to do it best. Hannibal developed a reputation as a reliable, able hitman who only left evidence when it was asked of him. A talented and consummate professional in all things. Speaking perfect Japanese also got him a long way with the local gangsters who were exhausted by monolingual white people. He made a few “friends,” and the proper amount of money to make himself comfortable while studying at John Hopkins. 

Shortly before he left for his first term, Hannibal received a letter.

He’d been recommended for a job by one of his yakuza colleges, to the Italians. They needed someone with culinary skills. And the pay was as much mob wife jewelry as he could fit in his pockets. 

They had a deal. 

Hannibal took himself, his knife roll, and a chef’s coat to a private event in Bay Ridge. The dinner party was not scheduled to begin for several hours, leaving him ample time. 

He slipped inside, unnoticed. The right costume and total confidence will get one in virtually anywhere. Hannibal was even directed to the kitchen by a helpful, though incompetent, bodyguard.

A cutting board, vegetables, and the prime rib were already laid out for him, along with a recipe card that must have been plucked from a nearby Rolodex. He studied it, carefully, for a long moment. And decided to make a few adjustments. 

The plan was, cook dinner, and poison everyone but Dona Giatta LaMantia. This would be easy because she was vegetarian. Ha, no one is vegetarian, he remembered thinking. That would be impossible. 

Dona LaMantia was supposed to live, and, being the only legitimate boss still standing, hand over control of her remaining soldiers to a rival gang. And, all too likely, herself. Whether she consented or not. 

He glanced at the cut of meat in front of him, and at the knives on his workstation. He picked up his favorite for cutting vegetables, a nakiri. It gave him excellent control. 

A few moments later, he was bleeding profusely. The zucchini lay in perfect medallions, and only one pale yellow disc suffered a drop of blood. He wrapped a kitchen towel around the wound and stepped awkwardly out of the kitchen to the helpful/unhelpful bodyguard. 

“Mi scusi, potresti indirizzarmi a un kit di pronto soccorso? Ho fatto uno stupido errore,” he said, in perfect, accentless Italian. Hannibal gave a pathetic grimace, playing up his youth. Just a kid in need of a bandage. 

The bodyguard sighed, and pointed up the stairs. “Ragazzo, è meglio che te ne occupi prima che torni il capo. Salite le scale, bussate alla terza porta a sinistra. La padrona di casa si occuperà di te,” he rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “Scemo.” 

Hannibal nodded his appreciation and scurried up the stairs, following his directions to Dona Giatta’s room. He knocked, as instructed. 

“Accedere,” said a bored voice. He opened the door to a grand room, all carved wood and flowing fabrics. In the center of it, was a tall woman reclined on a chaise lounge. The scene was almost cliche.

“Mi scusi…” he trailed off and held out the rapidly darkening hand towel.

“English?” She asked, sitting up. He nodded.

She gestured for him to take the spot next to her. Before he sat down, he carefully removed the towel and set it on a nearby table. She examined him for a moment, before standing to gather her first aid materials. 

“I was a nurse, before all this. I’m glad Rocco sent you to me, that cut could easily get infected,” she said. She took his hand in her strong fingers and disinfected it, before wrapping the wound in clean, white gauze. She smelled like fresh linen, peppermint soap, and something he could not quite place. Metal?

“Thank you, Dona. I’m sorry to be a bother.”

“You are no bother. If you had come here under circumstances other than an injury I would say I’m glad you stopped by. No one has visited me all day. Just put a glove around that, when you get back to cooking.” 

Hannibal pretended to believe this was a dismissal and stood to leave.

“Not now. I’m sure you have a little time to spare. Come sit with me, again. What’s your name?”

“Anthony, ma’am. I’m the new cook, downstairs.” 

“I hope you don’t often cut yourself in the kitchen. It’s a mark of inexperience, you know.”

“I never cut myself, no. This was an outlier, merely a mark of my hubris.”

“How long have you worked in kitchens?”

“Since I was a child.”

“Not long then,” she laughed. “How old are you?”

“22,” he lied, easily. He was freshly 19, but, no but one wanted to hire teenagers. 

“Hmm.” She cast him a sidelong glance behind wavy chestnut locks. It spilled elegantly over her tanned shoulders and reminded him of a painting he’d seen in France.

“Why are alone up here, anyway? If you don’t mind my asking.”

“My husband insists I spend my days resting and unbothered so I am not tempted to do any “frivolous activities.” It’s the most obvious of Mauchhausens by proxy, ever. Apparently if I go out, or socialize, I’ll become “hysterical.” Hmph.” She stretched her legs out in front of her. “That’s what you get marrying someone from the old world. Old world ideas. As if the eunuchs downstairs would ever try it with me.”

“You’re here against your will?”

“Don’t feign concern, baby-face, it’s unbecoming. I’ll be sorted out soon enough, anyway.” She leveled a conspiring gaze. “Won’t I?”

Oh. That changed things. 

“Did you have certain extra-curricular activities in mind, Anthony? I’m curious.” 

“Not since you seem so concerned about my age, ma’am.”

“Adorable. No, I mean the syringe under your bloody kitchen towel, and the folding blade in your pocket,” she produced a wicked bowie knife from the cushion of the lounge and used the tip to clean under her pristine fingernails. “My only concern with your age... is your naiveté.” She held his eyes for a long moment. “I’ll put this away if you promise I won’t be needing it. Then explain your plan and I’ll give you some free advice, professional to professional.”

Hannibal nodded at her and took a breath. Dona Giatta but down her knife. “I was planning to sedate you and amputate part of your thigh. Then replace the prime rib with what I took, but otherwise execute my orders faithfully.”

“Why cannibalism?” 

“It’s a signature I’ve been developing. Also, it frames and discredits your husband. I would simply be sewing in a little extra chaos.”

“Admirable. But, respectfully, flawed. Look at me.” Hannibal’s eyes had wandered to the window. He looked up at her instigation. “Your previous work has all been surprise and subdue, hasn’t it? Just nod I don’t want to waste time.” He nodded. “I see. Wet work is all well and good when your motives are not your own. When you are not the crime, just the weapon. When you get into the realm of art, your plan, for example, you will run across more skilled opponents than those you can count on to be stupid enough not to notice what you’re setting up. I saw how gingerly you carried that towel, and your cut did not match how you held it. I could also tell, upon examination, that it was self-inflicted. I know that neither chefs nor prep cooks wear pants with pockets on the job. Because they can catch on to any number of things in the kitchen and slow down work. They wear aprons with horizontal pockets that do not catch. Which is to say, you underestimated me. I am not offended, I work hard to manage perceptions. But there are a few hard truths here you’re going to have to learn if you want to continue on this road. Are you listening, baby-face?” He was. “They will catch you, always, if you go about this the way you want to. Unless you do not commit the crime. Go about your day as a safe, normal person. Have your eccentricities, your moments of weakness, your humanity. Build them up. It can even be true. Leading a double life leaves too many breadcrumbs, lies, no matter how well-conceived, are traceable. If you want to kill with a gun, be a cop. If you want to kill with a knife, be a chef.” She laughed. “But do not bring outside influence where it doesn’t belong. Transparency is the ultimate disguise. If you had genuinely hurt yourself, genuinely sought my help, I would not have noticed. And you could have simply snapped my neck and gone about your business. Do you understand?”

Hannibal coughed. He did. “Yes. I’m studying to be a surgeon. I just finished the equivalent of pre-med in France. I’ll be at Johns Hopkins in a few weeks.” 

“Smart boy. You’re doing this to make money for school?”

“More or less.”

Dona Giatta pulled a checkbook out of her purse and started writing. “This is from my own, private account and will not be affected by the transition of power,” she signed it with a flourish. “That ought to take care of a semester, at least. Don’t forget to pillage my jewelry box, too. The sapphires are your best bet since pawnbrokers are less suspicious of them. They’re also more difficult to track than diamonds. But take those too, just wait a year or two before you get rid of them.” 

“I have to say I’m extremely surprised by the way this conversation has gone. Why are you doing this?”

“Because I enjoy fostering talent. I may look you up one day. And, no matter how much I pay you, you’re about to do me a huge favor.” 

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, now, grab your knife and carve out my thigh.”

“...Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” She strode to her wardrobe and started pulling various outfits and strewing them across the floor as if she were indecisive about what to wear to the impending dinner party. She ensured a belt was close at hand, laying near the chaise along with one Louboutin. 

“If I had only taken out a belt, gone to get one from the wardrobe, or had you retrieve one for me, it would be obvious that my survival was no accident. Capice?” She winked. “It’s all about layers of deniability.” She sat back down on the lounge and kicked him off it with a stockinged foot, laying back in her original position. “I prefer to walk, the use of a cane is acceptable. Now, be my husband.” 

Hannibal did not respond, staring at her with a mouth that would be completely slack if he was not so well-mannered. 

“Grab the needle, but dose me with less than half of what you intended. I’m sure you were going to use the perfect amount for a woman of my height and weight, but that gives you away as not an idiot. And right now, you are my husband, who is an idiot. Chop chop.”

The kitchen towel was now dried slightly, and the hypodermic had tiny flecks of burgundy clinging to it. 

“There’s cleaning products and paper towels in the ensuite. Wipe down that table before you go back downstairs. That’s another thing: if you need to clean a place you have never been, do not use your stash. Only what’s on hand.”

He nodded, still mystified. She gestured to him to inject inside her elbow, and he did so. 

“That won’t numb the procedure completely, you know.”

“I know. I’ve had worse, let’s get it over with.”

“Will your husband not check on you before the guests arrive?”

“He will not. I am expected to make a grand entrance at 8 p.m. on the dot, once everyone has been seated. It is one of the many ways he objectifies and controls me in front of the men.” She sighed, feeling the drug take hold. 

“Why are you allowing this?”

“I’m not allowing anything. I’m the director, Anthony.” She smirked. “This little performance will give me a wonderful line of credit in ways I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain. Remember, you are not a medical student. You’re a boar, so cut like one. All I need to be is lucky.” 

He did so, slicing a gorgeous cut of meat out of her well-muscled leg. The blade missed her femoral artery by millimeters. 

Dona Giatta did not make a sound. She did not react at all. Her eyes were blank and staring into space. Dissociating to avoid the worst of it, Hannibal concluded. He was unwillingly touched by her trust in him. 

When he was done and had wrapped the evening's main course in his bloody kitchen towel, the woman grabbed a belt and torniquited her leg expertly, before packing the wound with some torn chiffon. 

“Will you be alright, up here?” 

“Quite.” She tossed a dark-colored dress over stray bloodstains on the floor below her. “Tell Rocco I request him to escort me downstairs when the time comes. That I want privacy but have been feeling faint.”

“I will.” 

“Good thing we don’t have to worry about a timeline when they’re all dead, eh?

“Very good, ma’am.” 

Hannibal began the minimal clean-up and was on his way out when she called him back.

“Questo è il gioco più pericoloso. Ma è solo un gioco. Non devi mai lasciare che diventi personale, dolce ragazzo.” The skin around her cold eyes crinkled in a motherly grin. “Buona fortuna.” 

***

In the dim light of his office, Hannibal considered her parting advice, not for the first time. His games had gotten terribly...personal. After tonight, there would be no coming back to Florence. No going back to America, either. No Dona Giatta, whose generosity had paid for the downpayment on his house. No Johns Hopkins. No Baltimore psychiatric practice. He could not return to Lithuania, either. A man with no country. Had he done this on purpose? 

His musing was interrupted by Pazzi, who seemed to believe one could simply walk into Hannibal’s office. 

He’d go to the Uffizi. That would clear his mind. After this, he would go to the Uffizi. And if Will knew him at all, if he had a shred of a piece of an idea about him, Will would be there too. He hoped. Maybe Will could help fill in the gaps. Maybe Will’s mind would finally satiate these cravings, kill the intruding thoughts in his own mind. Through Will...he would know himself, completely. Finally.

Fin.


End file.
